


Earl Grey and Post-it Notes

by coyotecorpse



Series: Tea and Us (mystrade universe) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Arguing, Cute Ending, Empathy Disorder, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Kissing, Greg is Sweet, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft is a Softie, Overstimulation, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Post-it Notes, Romance, Sweet, they learn and grow togther because i say so, this seems sadder than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotecorpse/pseuds/coyotecorpse
Summary: “No one can read you and you refuse to tell anyone what you want. I’m so tired of guessing, of...of tripping over issues I didn’t know existed, Mycroft.” He pauses, inhaling a deep breath and holding it. He’s doing breathing techniques that Mycroft recognizes from Sherlock’s youth. His brother used to be so anxious behind closed doors. His, supposedly, tiny heart throbs in his chest. Lestrade is hurting and he’s causing it.Mycroft tries, fails, and then succeeds to communicate and Greg loves him dearly through it all.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Tea and Us (mystrade universe) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059128
Comments: 3
Kudos: 157





	Earl Grey and Post-it Notes

**Author's Note:**

> tw/cw: vomiting, references to past child abuse, references to past homophobia, very vague canon compliant Mycroft body issues (like blink and you'll miss it. i just wanna be safe), singular reference to sherlock doing coke, and last but not least descriptions of sensory overload and headaches.
> 
> also this isn't beta read or brit picked. all faults are my own but if you call me out, i will ignore you.

They’re fighting. Well, Greg is fighting. Mycroft is leaning back in his overly plush chair and trying to keep his face blank. Greg is arguing with what basically amounts to be the human equivalent of a brick wall. 

“You aren’t even listening to me are you? Huh? God you ass. You complete and utter cock.”

Mycroft sighs quietly, shifting forward in his seat. He’s not quite sure why they’re fighting. Something about Mycroft being impossible and Greg feeling like he’s reliving his last marriage. It hurts a little but it’s mostly just confusing. Mycroft has always been a man of few words and Greg knows this, so why in the world is he yammering about how they never communicate?

“Gregory, I just don’t understand why you’re so angry about this. You knew what you were getting into when you chose to be with me.”

It seems to be the wrong response. Greg switches from angry to absolutely seething, teeth bared and eyes aflame. Mycroft is screwed.

“Knew what I was getting into? KNEW WHAT I WAS GETTING INTO!,” his voice shakes as he practically shouts. “I thought I was getting into a relationship BUT APPARENTLY THAT’S NOT THE CASE.” His East End accent peeks through as he gets angrier, his words becoming a loud drawl. 

Mycroft settles back into his seat, getting ready for a long night of shouting. He’s still, uncharacteristically, confused. They are in a relationship. Mycroft had thought they were in a happy relationship. At least, he’s been happy. He’s been so very happy with Greg. Perhaps it had been wrong of him to assume Greg felt the same way. They are very different people, so it would make sense for them to want different things from a partner. Just because Greg ticks every box for Mycroft doesn’t mean Mycroft does the same for Greg.

“You really don’t know why I’m angry do you?” Mycroft’s silent nod of affirmation only seems to make things worse. Greg’s anger warps into sick disappointment. He looks so let down that it makes Mycroft ache.

The chair he’s in suddenly feels too soft and the lights in the room cross over into far too bright. He feels a little sick, nauseous and light headed. Lestrade has never looked at him like that and Mycroft prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that it never happens again. 

“I can’t read you, Myc. I just… I just can’t fucking read you.” Lestrade huffs softly, eyes trailing along the patterned carpet. He looks distraught and all Mycroft wants to do is make him feel better.

“I worked for MI6 for years. I’m constantly entrenched in politics. Not even Sherlock can read me completely. You do better than most ordinary people.”

Greg doesn’t seem to take the compliment well. In fact, it only makes the sadness in his eyes increase ten-fold. Mycroft’s suit starts to feel itchy and his tie presses against his neck uncomfortably. When did the room get so damn bright? Everything seems to be going so wrong and Mycroft is left scrambling to fix a problem he cannot recognize. 

He can’t stand not knowing.

“I don’t want to be better than ordinary, Myc. I want you to actually communicate!” His voice gets a little louder and Mycroft has to suppress a flinch. It almost feels like his ears are ringing. 

Lestrade sighs, eyes locking with Mycroft’s. Mycroft can’t hold the eye-contact for more than a few seconds, succumbing to the shame and the burning behind his eyelids. He isn’t sure why he feels so bad. He supposes it could be sentiment, something he hasn’t felt for anyone other than Sherlock in a long, long time. It feels different now though. It feels worse.

“No one can read you and you refuse to tell anyone what you want. I’m so tired of guessing, of...of tripping over issues I didn’t know existed, Mycroft.” He pauses, inhaling a deep breath and holding it. He’s doing breathing techniques that Mycroft recognizes from Sherlock’s youth. His brother used to be so anxious behind closed doors. His, supposedly, tiny heart throbs in his chest. Lestrade is hurting and he’s causing it.

“Gregory,” He’s cut off before he can really start.

“DONT… don’t ‘Gregory’ me, Holmes. For once, in your entire, stupidly posh life can you just say what you mean? Can you stop being the Iceman for one second and just  _ talk _ to me?”

Mycroft can feel the urge to bounce his leg run through him, but he suppresses it. Stress and nervousness are signs of weakness and one cannot be weak when doing the job he does. He is the Iceman for a reason and Greg doesn’t seem to understand that it isn’t a persona that he can just switch off. He is as much the Iceman as Greg is a detective inspector. It is simultaneously what he does and partially who he is.

“I warned you when we started this dalliance to not fall for the person you want me to be. I’ve never been one for sentiment. I thought you understood that.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but you, Mycroft Holmes, are the biggest fucking liar I’ve ever met.”

Mycroft stutters, shocked. No-one could ever throw him off his rhythm the way Lestrade can. “I-I don’t know what you mean. My profession requires me to deal in half-truths but I have never outright lied to you, Inspector.”

“You’re lying to me right now,” Lestrade scoffs. “You say that sentiment isn’t something you do, but I’ve seen you, Mycroft. I’ve seen how softly you handle Sherlock like, like he’s something delicate. I was there, ya know, when he was high out of his mind on the Yard’s doorstep. I saw how much you cared, how much you do care.”

“My love for my brother doesn’t really seem relevant to our current issue.”

“It’s relevant because I know you care about people, Mycroft. I just wish you would say something about it...Just talk to me, Myc. All I want is for you to talk to me.”

Mycroft reaches up and casually loosens his tie. It had been constricting his airways and making it hard to breath. It doesn’t quite get rid of the tightness that has made its home in his chest. He glances back up at Greg and sighs. He will never understand the thought process of the masses, let alone the one of his Gregory.

“I do talk to you. We’re talking right now.”

Greg visibly restrains himself from lashing out, well muscled body wound tight like a live wire. “Either you’re the dumbest man in the world or you’re making fun of me. Choose wisely, Myc, ‘cause I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with this back and forth.”

Mycroft’s heart shatters. Greg wants to leave. He knew it would happen eventually. Everyone leaves, all hearts break, that’s just how the story goes. Mycroft just hadn’t expected their story to end so soon, to end like this.

“I...I would never make fun of you, Gregory. I just,” he pleads, desperately trying the reign in his wild emotions. “I really don’t understand why you are so cross with me.”

For the first time since this row started what feels like hours ago, Greg pauses. His pacing ceases and his expression shifts into utter confusion. He moves forward, and Mycroft has to fight the urge to scoot back. He isn’t afraid of Greg, not really, but his mind is a little scattered. He’s attempting to process so much information that he never thought he’d have to and it’s starting to overload his senses. Greg leans down and Mycroft does shift back. Greg tilts his head to the side in a way that would be endearing if Mycroft wasn’t so damn bewildered. 

“Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said something I didn’t mean. I know you aren’t laughing at me, but I need you to understand where I’m coming from. This is the most emotion you’ve ever shown me, but I-I know sometimes I hurt you. I say things and you refuse to talk to me for days or you physically put distance between us, and I never want to hurt you, My. I just need you to talk to me, to tell how you feel. ‘Cause sometimes it feels like I don’t know you.”

Greg gently lays his hand on Mycroft’s cheek, fingers splayed over his jaw, and Mycroft  _ hates _ it. It makes his skin tingle and his brain is still scrambling to process all the information it’s taking in. He can smell cheap whiskey on Greg’s coat but Greg doesn’t drink on the job so it must have been a suspect. Probably a man, either aggressive or fall-down-drunk, judging by how close he had to get to Greg for the smell to linger. Greg’s position is averagely high up so public intoxication is below his pay grade so definitely aggressive. Greg came to dinner a little distant and is now angry so it must have hit a nerve. Greg’s father was a drunk and a mean one at that so a domestic disturbance that turned into a domestic violence call. 

His hand is calloused against Mycroft’s face due to the amount of paperwork he does, gripping a pen more often than not. He also had a little scruff on his face, not enough to be unprofessional but still present. He had a late night, slept in. That explains why the case impacted him more than usual. He’s tired, reminded of past trauma, and just spent hours staring at boring paperwork. It’s surprising he didn’t snap earlier and go further than he did. 

So many deductions and general observations flood him and it hurts. He can usually handle the fast pace of his brain but his confusion coupled with the feeling of desperation that bloomed when Greg’s disappointment became apparent causes him to mentally jackknife.

He jerks away from Greg’s hand, head moving so fast it makes his neck hurt.

Greg pulls away, eyes wide and nervous. He looks guilty. Probably because he thinks he’s becoming his father, his brain supplies unhelpfully. Greg is nothing like that horrid old man, has never been like him, and never will be like him. Mycroft tries to take the movement back, leaning towards the air that was once occupied by Greg. He’s spent a long time pleasing people despite his own pain; he will gladly do it for Greg any day.

“Mycroft, did you think I was going to hurt you?” It’s a genuine and soft question. His brown eyes twinkle with the beginnings of tears, not ready to cry but upset.

Mycroft struggles with his words and the nausea starts to become unbearable. The sparks of a migraine flicker behind his eyebrows. Everything hurts and he just needs a moment to think, just a second to process the overflow of information. Greg seems to take his silence as an admission; it isn’t an admission. He has never been afraid of his darling Gregory, not in a million years. He wants to scream, rip his throat raw in anguish.

Greg is right. Mycroft is incapable of expressing himself properly. He can’t spit out the words and Greg is still so sure he’s gone too far, that he’s somehow hurt Myc.

“Myc.. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make this better?” It's the same voice he uses for scared children and victims. It makes Mycroft’s stomach churn.

Mycroft wants him to shut up, wants the room to stop spinning. The small slip of confusion earlier has caused a full blown spiral. His brain is racing to find the words to please Greg, process the odd stain on the carpet, and deduce exactly what terrible thoughts are going through Greg’s head. He has to physically shake his aching head to make it bearable. He doesn’t want to imagine the pain Greg suffered at the hands of his father, he doesn’t want to imagine the diplomat who spilled wine on the carpet and cheated on his wife with her sister, and most definitely doesn’t want to sort the proper emotional responses to these thoughts because he is not in the right headspace to think about how he should be feeling, how he should be expressing himself. He is so damn tired of having to think 8 steps ahead, of sorting how he should respond to things in the same files he sorts basic information. He just wants to take some panadol and hide under his desk until the pain dissipates.

“I want you to leave…” It’s no more than a mumbled breath but Greg hears it. Mycroft turns to him slowly, blinking back pain and trying not to squint against the lights. “I cannot do this right now.”

Greg steps back, hands moving up in a surrendering motion. He looks so guilty and Myc wishes he could feel bad about it but he can’t. He’s just glad he’s leaving so he can get away from all this data, all this confusion.

Lestrade stops at the door, glancing back at Mycroft’s hunched form. “Later, okay? Call me when you’re ready. I-I...I love you, Myc.”

He’s said it before in the darkness of a bedroom, stained with whiskey and cheap beer. He’s also said it at the breakfast table, too tired from lack of coffee to realize what he’s said. And he’s said it in alleyways, blowing kisses at CCTV during cases because he thinks Mycroft may be watching, 

Mycroft is always watching.

Mycroft has never said it back, never saw the need. He can’t love Lestrade the way Lestrade loves him so parroting the phrase back feels like a lie. Hearing it now just feels like a knife to his already tender ears. Pain skyrockets and his brain gives 209 different options for a response and the possible outcomes for each of those responses. He wishes he could say he didn’t do any of them, but he does. He sits in silence (106) and Greg leaves, door clicking into place. He doesn’t feel better. He thinks he might feel worse.

He stumbles to his feet and moves towards his desk, vertigo making him wobble. Once he makes it to his destination, he grips the small metal rubbish bin and vomits, stomach upheaving the pitiful dinner he had earlier. He’s been trying to watch his weight and a salad had seemed like a good option but as it came back up, Mycroft regrets eating entirely. Bile rips at his throat and his mouth tastes disgusting. It’s just more input for his brain to speed through.

Sherlock always begged for his brain to move faster, work clearer. He crammed coke up his nose and in his veins just to get a fraction of what Mycroft is suffering through. He wishes he could explain to his little brother that being so smart is a curse, that his brain moves so fast that sometimes he would do anything,  _ anything _ for a minute of silence, for something as trivial as a mind palace to rest in. He doesn’t get that pleasure and Sherlock will never understand why he doesn’t want to have Mycroft’s intellect.

The bin is full of green tinted puke and Mycroft’s stomach is officially empty but he continues to dry heave. His brain feels like the static on an old TV set, sparking and buzzing around his skull. His nose is dripping and his eyes are watering. He feels like a deadman walking.

When his stomach stops turning, he pushes the bin away, slumping to the floor. He rips off his suit jacket and his tie, tossing them into the chair adjacent to his throbbing body. He scoots under the desk and reaches around into a drawer for his pain pills. Swallowing the pills dry hurts like hell but he’s been through worse so he ignores the burn. He leans against the cool wood of the desk and lets his eyes fall shut, the darkness of the cramped corner making his headache ease.

His joints will make him regret this later, but, honestly, he’s pretty sure he’s going to regret this whole day even with or without his aching bones.

It takes around two hours for Mycroft to properly sort his thoughts. His phone buzzing from his jacket pocket is what finally breaks him from his stressed reverie. He shuffles out from under the heavy oak and fumbles with his jacket for his cell. When he finally finds it tucked away in the left pocket, he doesn’t even bother checking the caller ID.

“Mycroft Holmes speaking.”

“Sir, I’ve got some paperwork for you. I know you are with Mr. Lestrade tonight but I was wondering if you could swing by the office to get this over with. Mr. Lyons has been pestering me non-stop about this deal.” Anthea’s voice crackles through the phone speaker clearly annoyed. Anthony Lyons is new to the game and tends to be pushy when it comes to getting what he wants. Mycroft can hardly stand the man. He won’t last very long in Mycroft’s circle if he keeps it up but for now he is an ally. Annoying and self righteous but an ally nonetheless.

“Of course, Anthea. I’m in my office right now just give me a moment.”

The receiver clicks and Mycroft stretches to his feet, back cracking loudly. His knees ache but it’s tolerable and only minorly distracting. He quickly adjusts his shirt, pulls on his tie, and lays his jacket neatly over the back of his chair. He is adept at the art of pretending everything is fine and now is no exception. 

He listens for the clicking of Anthea’s ridiculous heels as he pours himself a glass of scotch from his personal collection. When he hears the telltale sound of Anthea’s steps, he picks up a pen and waits.

She opens the door quickly, arms full of papers. She looks quite tired, eye bags visible and hair slightly mused. He decides then to not take out his rather foul mood on her; she does far too much for him and doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his own bad day. 

She gives him a tired grin and slams the stack down on his desk. He signs the lines swiftly, trusting that Anthea had already read over the paperwork for any surprises. She taps her foot to a random beat, not impatient but pushing it. Lyon’s clearly annoyed her more than usual with his yammering. He finishes up the signing and pushes the papers back across the desk to her. She struggles to get them all together and makes a face of annoyance. Mycroft lets a small smirk grace his face and she shoots him a glare. He’s always liked how sassy she could be. Most of his other assistants were terrified of stepping out of line but Anthea enjoys pushing the limits, drawing new lines in the sand. It makes her interesting which is something not many people in their line of work are, so he allows it.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Do you need me to call a car for you? It’s getting quite late.”

Mycroft sits down and shakes his head. “No, no that won’t be necessary. I’ll be here for a few more hours. Plenty of work to get done.”

She pauses, worry crossing her face. They’d grown vaguely close during their careers together. Anthea is a kind woman despite her razor sharp wit and mysteriousness. It is another thing about her that Mycroft has grown to find interesting.

“You sure? I can stay as well if it will help you get home faster.”

She doesn’t want to stay but her concern for him outweighs her exhaustion. She has someone waiting for her at home. She comes to work every morning with her lipstick slightly smeared and the smell of a strange perfume clinging to her dresses. Even now Mycroft can see the signs of a not-so-new lover. The dress she’s wearing doesn’t fit quite right. It’s the correct size but with how much Mycroft pays her Anthea’s dresses are usually perfectly tailored. It’s simply not her dress which means whoever she’s dating has loaned it to her. It could be a man; small men who dress femininely do exist but for the sake of probability, Mycroft assumes it’s a woman.

Mycroft Holmes is not known for his kindness but Anthea’s sorry state and the fact that he doesn’t really have much to do makes his answer an easy one.

“No, Anthea, I’ll be fine on my own. Have a nice night with your girlfriend.”

She smiles with a light blush rising to her cheeks. “Of course, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Anthea.”

She disappears through the doorway, leaving Mycroft alone once again. He stares at his computer for a few long moments before deciding that pretending to work is useless. No-one can see him and he definitely isn’t going to get anything done, so he leans back in his seat and takes a few sips of his drink.

His mind wanders back to earlier in the night. Greg’s words echo through his head. No one can read you and you refuse to tell anyone what you want. 

The statement isn’t incorrect. Mycroft is notably impossible to read and he finds that voicing his desires is often a useless task. He is most confused as to why Greg would even care. He never seemed to mind before that he knew little about Mycroft and none of Mycroft’s past partners ever really wanted to know much. He is a stuffy, old politician with too many skeletons in his closet and a wild younger brother. His life is not very interesting and what is interesting is highly classified. What in the world does Greg want to know?

Greg said he felt like he didn’t know Mycroft and that he’s tired of accidentally hurting him. Mycroft can admit that sometimes Greg makes comments that throw him off balance. Any compliment about his appearance tends to make him uncomfortable. He hates when Greg tries to get him to talk about work. His childhood outside of stories about Sherlock has been partially off limits. Sex is another topic that tends to be avoided but not always. Sometimes Mycroft simply doesn’t like the idea of being naked, or touched, or looked at for long periods of time. It’s still a bit of a taboo in his mind. His parents hadn’t been very accepting and the time period hadn’t been kind to men like him. 

Sex also tends to be something given for leverage. Most of his old partners didn’t really care for his dry wit or less than average looks. They wanted his money, his connections, and the luxurious life he could provide. They assumed that if they gave him sex, he would never care about the romance, and they were partially correct. Mycroft isn’t a very romantic man, but much to the chagrin of his partners he also isn’t a very sexual one. Human intimacy both emotional and physical are often offputting to him which meant when he realized he was being used, he often kicked them to the curb. Occasionally he’d keep them around. There were a few old flames that were quite entertaining and a warm body in bed next to him was always a bonus.

Mycroft shifts in his seat and grabs a blank notepad and a pen. He looks through his memories and tries to find all the moments where Greg told him something about himself, little things that only really matter to ordinary people or when you’re trying to find someone a christmas gift.

He scribbles out a small list until he’s satisfied with what he’s written.

  1. His favorite color is dark green.
  2. He likes Earl Grey tea with a little bit of honey in it
  3. Whiskey > wine. He thinks all wine tastes basically the same
  4. He likes classical music but can never remember the names of pieces
  5. He hates guns and is not a very good shot
  6. His left hip has a sizable scar from where he fell out of a tree when he was 8



Six simple facts about Gregory Lestrade that he revealed to Mycroft in casual conversation. Mycroft can do that; he can give up small facts about himself. He doesn’t understand why Greg wants to know such trivial things but if it makes him happy, Mycroft is more than willing to share.

His fingers ghost over the ink and a small smile graces his lips. He does like knowing these things about Greg. He deduced most of the facts long before Greg ever said anything but knowing feels good. He knows Greg probably feels like their relationship is off balance. He knows more about Greg than Greg will ever verbally reveal and Greg knows only what Mycroft says. Myc didn’t know that having an even playing field on something as small as personal facts would be important but it clearly is to the inspector. Mycroft isn’t half as interesting as Greg but he’ll still try to make the other man happy or at least satiate his desire for knowledge.

He shoves the note into his pocket and tries not to think about how sentimental he’s acting.

He picks up his cellphone and goes to shoot off a quick text to Greg before thinking about Greg’s words from earlier. Call me when you’re ready. Mycroft checks the clock, hoping it wasn’t too late to call. Greg looked tired before he left and might have gone to bed early. 12:58 A.M. 

Mycroft groans. Greg’s sleep schedule is more steady than his own but there’s still a bit of variation. He is either dead asleep on the couch with the TV still playing or getting ready for bed. Mycroft knows that probability leans towards the former but he still dials the number. 

Three rings pass.

“Uhhh...‘Ello?”

Asleep on the couch was correct.

“Have a good nap, Gregory?”

He can hear the silver haired man shuffle on the other end, most likely sitting up and stretching. 

“Yeah, yeah, I must’ve drifted off for a few,” he mumbles, fighting a yawn. “How are you feelin’, Myc? You didn’t look so good earlier.”

Mycroft can only imagine. With his head aching and his tie half on he must have looked somewhere between pissed off and anxious. He knew he had been a little harsh with his lover, his small spiral downward making him a little less than pleasant to talk to, so he reassures him gently.

“I’m fine, darling, just had a bit of a migraine.” He hears a small hum on the other line, a relieved little noise. It’s clear that Greg only half-believes him, still thinking he did something to spook Mycroft when they had argued. “I was just calling to say I’m leaving my office. You said to call when I was ready to talk, but if you’re too tired, we can reschedule.”

Greg quickly responds, voice gruff with sleep. “No, no, I wanna talk to you tonight if you’re willing. You alrigh’ with coming ‘round mine?”

“That would be fine. I’ll be there in a little while. Try not to fall back to sleep.”

Greg grunts his affirmation and Myc hangs up. He gathers his things and dials his driver. While he is capable of driving, he finds it quite tedious and prefers to have someone else do it for him. His mind finds the pattern of driving to be repetitive and deducing the actions of fellow drivers is only entertaining for a short while.

The black town car pulls around the building just as Mycroft steps out, suit jacket buttoned up and umbrella in hand. He slips inside the warm backseat and gives directions swiftly, stretching his legs out in an attempt to make his knees stop aching. He really shouldn’t have sat under his desk for so long; he’s getting far too old for his childhood coping methods.

It only takes about 15 minutes to make it to Greg’s flat. It’s a small place but cozy; an inspector’s salary isn’t quite able to afford the luxury Mycroft is used to but the place feels like Greg so he supposes it’s nice enough.

He knocks politely on the door and waits for an answer, wondering if Greg had fallen back asleep. It takes a couple of seconds but he can hear movement on the other side of the door. It swings open to reveal a very tired Greg who’s only wearing a pair of loose navy sweatpants and his boxers — Mycroft can see the waistband due to the sweatpants slipping low on the other man’s hips. 

Greg grins widely, a little nervous but glad to see his lover nonetheless. He gestures for Myc to come inside and plops down on the arm of the couch, facing the Holmes brother who’s still standing stiffly in the doorway.

“C’mon in, Myc. It’s too cold to be standin’ outside like that.”

Mycroft steps into the flat and shuts the door behind, not bothering to take his jacket off. Greg shifts anxiously, trying to figure out what to say and failing. Mycroft sighs and walks around to sit in the armchair next to the couch. Greg turns to face him; his arms wrap around his chest in a self-conscious attempt to hide. 

“So,” he draws out the ‘o’ and looks Mycroft up and down. “You said you were ready to talk?” It’s a statement but he phrases it like a question. Very nervous and feeling a little underdressed, his voice takes on an unfamiliar lilt.

“Yes, I did. I want you to know that I’m sorry for my behavior back at my office. It was rude of me to tell you to leave like that without explaining my, how would you say, little incident.”

Mycroft holds Greg’s gaze now, eyes steady. The older man uncrosses his arms and stares right back, curiosity overriding anxiety. 

“You mean jerking away like I burned you?”

“Yes, that is the incident I am referring to,” Mycroft clarifies, a little embarrassed by his prior behavior. “I need you to know that it wasn’t your fault. I have never been nor will I ever be afraid of you, Gregory.”

“You pulled away pretty fast, treacle, so forgive me for not really believin’ you on that one.” 

Mycroft preens a little at the pet name. Greg often used pet names and while some were quite childish Mycroft enjoys the idea of being Greg’s treacle. He has never been seen as sweet before and the fact Greg thinks of him as such is rather endearing.

“Sometimes when I am stressed or faced with an influx of new information, I get overloaded. The human brain is not made to process information at speed mine does so it does occasionally short out. I wasn’t afraid of you or flinching from a perceived hit. The contact was just too overwhelming for my addled brain.”

Greg nods along, taking in what Mycroft has to say eagerly. Clearly excited to get a bit of info about the other man, to get what he had been fighting for earlier.

“What happened to cause the, uh, short out? I’ve never seen you get like that before.”

“I truly had no idea why you were so upset with me. The confusion coupled with a few annoying diplomats and too little sleep gave me too much information to sort through and not enough time to do it. It’s honestly quite dreadful, so I try to keep it private. It doesn’t happen often so when it does, it’s a little shocking.” Mycroft keeps his voice low and even and perhaps a bit bored. He’s never told anyone about this really. Sherlock knows and Anthea probably has an inkling but other than that it’s a very private matter. Mycroft wouldn’t say he’s nervous — because Mycroft Holmes doesn’t get nervous — but he is somewhere between anxious and fine, a purgatory he isn’t used to.

“What happens when you get overloaded like that? Ya know, other than snapping at people.” Greg doesn’t sound angry, just curious, looking at Mycroft with twinkling dark brown eyes. He’s intrigued and a little empathetic judging by the small frown he wore when Mycroft said it was dreadful.

“I get a little nauseous, sometimes I get a migraine, and everything becomes too much for my brain to process. Imagine if all of your senses were turned up all the way. Every small noise is like gunfire, pleasant smells become overbearing, and even the soft touch feels like a live wire.”

Greg nods again, the empathetic frown reforming on his face. Mycroft doesn’t really understand it, empathy that is. He knows that he should feel it and that not feeling it is something he probably should talk to a therapist about, but it’s never really bothered him. He can fake it and even when he can’t, he is still capable of sympathy. His brother also experiences his lack of empathy but at varying degrees. Sherlock would never admit it but some days all he can feel is empathy and others he can’t feel it all. They truly are two sides of the same warped coin. 

Mycroft suppresses a chuckle. Their parents have some explaining to do.

“Does Sherlock get the same way? I mean I know you two aren’t really that similar but you are both geniuses.” Speak of the devil.

“My brother doesn’t experience it the same way I do. He tends to get underwhelmed. He becomes desperate for any stimulation he can find. He needs a near constant flow of information to keep himself from falling apart. It’s why he turned to coke. Now he just throws tantrums and begs for cases.”

Greg chuckles deeply, a full body sort of laugh. Mycroft can’t help but laugh with him. His brother’s antics are annoying but they can be quite hilarious as well.

“Thanks for telling me, Myc.” The tone of the conversation becomes rather serious. Greg’s voice is firm but gentle as he speaks. “This is all I really wanted earlier, for you to actually talk to me. I know we talk all the time but it feels like I’m the one saying everything and you just fill the gaps in conversation without any meaning. Ya know, just talking to talk.”

Myc thinks for a moment and decides that Greg is probably right. He doesn’t tend to give away much information in day to day conversation. His job had taught him very early not to reveal anything about work and his childhood lacked any real friends to share with. People never really cared about what Mycroft had to say unless it was homework answers or if he was pretending to be of average intellect. He supposes that at one time it must have hurt him but he’s almost glad it happened now. It made him fit for his job and without his job he would have never met Greg. He would go through a lifetime of suffering if he meant he could come home to this, Greg shirtless on the couch, sleepy and genuine and oh so saccharine. 

He freezes, tensing up as waves of sentiment flood his brain. He thinks of Greg’s parting words from earlier. 

_ I love you _ . 

Mycroft isn’t sure if what he’s feeling is love. He knows he loves Sherlock and while this is vaguely familiar it isn’t the same. He knows intellectually that without a proper sense of empathy he can’t feel emotions like the average person. He can’t love in the same way Greg does, but he’s not sure if that really matters. Here in the low light of Greg’s tiny living room all Mycroft can think about is how much he’d like to stay in this moment forever, how he’ll always remember Greg like this.

Everyone leaves. All hearts break. The smaller the heart the less it hurts. He knows these things to be true but right now his heart feels three sizes too big and the front door is shut. Greg is here now and he isn’t going to leave.

“Myc? You feeling okay? You look a little pale.” Greg’s voice is so soft, so damn worried, and it makes Mycroft’s icy heart melt a little more. Sentiment is dangerous especially in his line of work but perhaps the risk is worth it, maybe Greg is worth it.

“Do you need something? If your head’s hurting, I’ve got some…” Mycroft’s will snaps.

“I love you too.”

Everything slows down, time almost freezing as his words hang in the air. Greg’s eyes are wide and Mycroft feels little sick — but he isn’t nervous no he can’t be nervous — and he bites the inside of his cheek with enough force to make it bleed. He hopes he hasn’t messed this up.

After what feels like hours, Greg breaks the silence.

“Are you saying that because you mean it or because you want me to feel better about earlier?”

It’s a simple question but Mycroft’s brain buffers. He isn’t sure which is the right answer. Is Greg not ready to hear it back? Is Greg mad that he waited so long?

Mycroft settles for the truth.

“I’ve never had anyone before you, not like this. My past relationships weren’t good, never healthy, and I was always aware of that. I was never quite sure what to expect from you but this wasn’t it. I’ve never felt like this before and while I’m not really sure what love feels like I’m pretty sure that I never want to stop feeling the way I feel when I’m with you.”

Greg gets to his feet steadily, eyes warm with affection and so much more that Mycroft can’t name.

“Stand up, treacle, so I can kiss you properly.”

Mycroft doesn’t hesitate.

It’s everything to Mycroft. They never really kissed outside of drunk grinding in his bedroom or the foyer or the doorway. It was always a lead up activity and never just something to do. It wasn’t about expressing affection; it was about foreplay. But here — as Greg’s hands grips at the back of Mycroft’s neck, causing him to go weak in the knees — it’s about all the things they can’t find the words for. It’s a prayer to their heart, a hymn to the connection they feel. It’s a dream that Mycroft convinced himself would never happen when he was 13, locked away in his bedroom, begging to be anybody else. It’s the wish that Greg forced himself to forget on his 14th birthday when his father explained with his fists that if he ever saw Greg with his best friend again, he’d not live to see the sunrise.

When they finally come up for air, they don’t pull away. Greg’s hand migrates from the back of Mycroft’s neck to caress his cheek like he did earlier. Mycroft grins and leans into the touch like a cat. Mycroft’s hands rest easily on Greg’s hip, thumb tracing over the scar lovingly.

“You know I got that falling out of a tree?” Mycroft can feel the heat of his breath against his face. He leans forward again, pressing their foreheads together.

“Yes, I know. You’ve told me before, darling.”

Greg chuckles, stealing small pecks against the corner of Myc’s mouth. “See? You know so much about me. When am I gonna get some fun stories?”

Mycroft huffs childishly but Greg soothes his faux annoyance with a soft kiss to his nose. Mycroft responds by turning his head just enough to graze his lips across Greg’s palm.

“I wasn’t a very fun child but perhaps I’ll tell you some stories,” he pauses, remembering the crumbled bit of stationary in his pocket. “You know I wrote a little list of things you’ve told me. Not things I deduced or learned from Sherlock. I thought that if I knew what you told me, it’d be easier to understand what you want to know so bad.”

Air hits his face as Greg lets out a full blown laugh, eyes crinkled shut as he smiled wider than Mycroft had ever seen before. “That’s so cute. What was on it? I wanna know.”

Mycroft pulls back a little, one hand still resting on Greg’s bare hip. “I’ve actually got it in my pocket.” He pulls out the crumpled piece of paper and unfolds it. Greg practically bounces with excitement. Mycroft allows amusement to override what little embarrassment he had started to feel. “Here you go.”

Greg snatches the paper away, grinning wildly. He reads over it carefully like he’s afraid to miss something, eyes scanning over all six lines slowly.

“What’s your favorite color, Myc?”

Mycroft doesn’t even need to think. “Brown.”

Greg chuckles, eyes still on the paper. “Of course you would like neutrals. How do you take your tea?”

“Easy, black. I prefer chamomile to earl grey, though.”

Greg makes a face, scrunching his nose. Mycroft rolls his eyes. Why did he have to fall in love with a child?

“Favorite drink? And if you say wine, we’re over. It’s all the same. I don’t care what you have to say about it.”

Mycroft shoots him a small glare, the impact softened by the smile of his face. “All wine doesn’t taste the same. You just drink cheap wine.” Greg tries to cut him off, objecting to Mycroft’s very true accusation, but Mycroft silences him with a wave of his hand. “I like Cognac and Bourbon.”

“Ooooh, Mr. Fancy Pants “I Pay 200 Pounds For A Drink” Holmes strikes again. Favorite type of music?”

“Classical. Though Sherlock has thoroughly ruined several pieces for me. Him and I used to play together when we were younger. Him on violin; me on piano. I gave it up. Mother disliked the sound of my playing and I didn’t want her to hate me more than she already did.”

Greg’s smile drops, his hand lowering the list. Mycroft tenses. Did he say something wrong? Greg was so happy to hear about his life earlier. What changed? Did he go too far?

“Your mother hated you?”

Oh. That explains it. Gregory’s dad had been violent and Mycroft’s offhandedness about his own parent’s neglect must have struck a nerve.

“Well, she continues to hate me, but yes, she did. Sherlock was the prodigal son despite all his issues. I was simply the fatter, older child she had to deal with. I was put in charge of Sherlock the day he was born and she blames me for every mistake he’s made since then. It’s why Sherlock used to be so harsh with me. Quite a bit of his hatred was inherited.”

“Sherlock has never hated you. He may be a prick but he does love you.” Greg pauses, empty hand grabbing Mycroft’s jacket. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I sort of understand what it’s like being the least favorite.” He pulls Mycroft towards him by his coat, closing the gap that had formed.

“Seems like we make a good pair, huh, darling? Two unwanted children.” Mycroft’s voice is sweet, barely tinged with bitterness. Greg knows he’s struck a nerve but he can’t help but feel happy. Mycroft isn’t shutting down or pulling away; he’s letting Greg pull him in. He’s letting Greg comfort him and it feels amazing.

“We seem to be gettin’ on just fine. Our parents clearly aren’t the brightest.”

Mycroft chuckles and leans in to Greg’s touch, laying his cheek against the other man’s hair. Greg giggles back and pulls away, grinning once more. The tone changes easily and Mycroft feels like a weight has been moved off his sternum. He never knew he was holding so much back, carrying so many secrets on his shoulders.

“So, treacle, what’s your opinion on guns? Got anything you hate with a passion?”

“Guns are fine. I’m carrying one now.” Greg’s expression turns to shock, hands skimming over Mycroft’s waist in search of said weapon. Myc gestures vaguely towards his umbrella, a shit eating grin on his face.

“There’s no way you’re being serious right now.”

“Dead serious, my dear Gregory. It also has a hidden blade.”

Greg’s eyes become comically wide as he stares at the umbrella. Mycroft smirks at his shock. “And what I hate with a passion is small talk. I may do it often but it never becomes more bearable.”

Greg doesn’t look away from the umbrella for a few more seconds, trying to figure exactly how it’s both a gun and a sword. He finally looks back at the list and asks the final question. “Do you have scars with a stupid backstory? I mean I know you’ve probably got some from your MI6 days but I mean like a childhood mishap.”

Mycroft thinks for a moment before grabbing Greg’s hand. He places the other man’s hand softly on his right side, just over his bottom ribs.

“I’ve got a patch of really thin scars on my last two ribs from a bad cat scratch. We had one for a few years when I was about 15. She was generally quite mild mannered but Sherlock has spooked her and in her fright she jumped onto the closest thing she could find. That just so happened to be me coming around the corner to figure out what Sherlock was getting up to. She sunk all 10 of her claws into my shirt and refused to let go. It hurt a lot but I still liked her. Mother got rid of her after Sherlock asked for a dog; said they’d fight.”

Greg’s hand trails around the location Mycroft specified, almost searching for the marks. He looks a little sad, lost in thought. Mycroft feels bad for ruining the mood again but it was the only story he could think of that didn’t involve another human who was actively trying to kill or maim him.

“I should have known you were a cat person. You’re just the type.”

“Is that so?”

Greg nods, looking back up and Mycroft. He still looks a little sad but he’s got this charming smile on his face that makes Mycroft’s worries melt. He feels a little stupid acting like this, caught up in sentiment and trying to be honest, but he’s willing to flounder a little if it makes Greg smile like that. Though, he sure if anyone ever asked, he’d deny anything he said here vehemently. 

It warms his icy heart a little to think that Greg would probably do it too, would keep his secrets close to his chest and never let go.

“Yep, I had a dog when I was younger. He was technically my sister’s but I liked him well enough. Never had a cat though. They seem a little standoffish.”

“You never seemed to have a problem with that before.” Mycroft quirks his brow and Greg just smiles.

“Yeah, you got me there.” He leans up for another small kiss, sleepily missing Mycroft’s mouth and hitting his cheek.

“Lets go to bed, my dearest Gregory. We can talk more later.” Greg nods and pulls Mycroft to the bedroom. They’ve never just slept together before despite having been together for almost a year now — 11 months and 3 days — ; they always had sex first and even then if it happened at Greg’s place, Mycroft always left in the middle of the night. If it happened in Mycroft’s home, he always got up first to make breakfast. This would be the first time they just shared the space together. 

Mycroft knows it shouldn’t be a very big deal, but this is all new to him, every little thing feels like a bomb going off in his chest. He’s never let himself have this, never thought he deserved it. He still doesn’t, not really, but Greg is tugging him along and the bed looks so inviting, so he lays down silently and lets Greg curl into his chest, barely caring that he’s still wearing his suit.

Sentiment may be a chemical defect found only in the losing side but god damn does this feel like winning.

His phone rings from his pocket around 5:30 A.M. He’d thrown his jacket on the floor at some point in the night so he has to get up to answer it. Greg is sleeping peacefully, snoring softly into his pillow. When Mycroft rolls away to get up, Greg makes a sleepy sound of complaint, making what can only be described as grabby-hands at Mycroft. Myc laughs quietly at his sleeping partner and picks up the phone.

“This better be important, Anthea.”

He can hear her shout something at someone in the background before responding. “It is. Lyons is insisting that the deal is somehow fraudulent and is demanding to speak with you. I tried to get him to make an appointment and he threw his coffee at me. There are several diplomats here who do have meetings with you later and they seem to be quite upset with his accusations.”

Mycroft sighs. “I’ll be there in 45 minutes. I need to change clothes. Take him to my office, treat him nicely and get him a new coffee. If he tries anything else, call Nik from security and tell him to handle it. I don’t care if it causes an international incident.”

Before Anthea hangs up he adds. “I’m sorry about your dress. I’ll give you some cash to replace it and if he really does push you again, I give you permission to use force before calling Nik.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He hangs up and moves quickly, stopping only once he gets to the living room. He sees a small pile of sticky notes on the kitchen counter and decides to leave Greg a quick note.

_ Good morning, Gregory. I hope you had a restful night. There was an incident at work and I had to go in. I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye but you clearly needed some rest. Feel free to text me whenever. I’ll try to respond as quickly as possible. Have a good breakfast and a nice day at work. I love you, darling. _

_ P.s. I used to play pirates with Sherlock when he was little. We once had a wooden sword fight that ended with me getting a black eye and him missing a tooth. _

He grins at the memory and heads out the door, already calling his driver.

Greg finds the note around 7 and smiles so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. He scrambles himself so eggs and tries to imagine little Mycroft wearing an eyepatch and sword fighting a tiny Sherlock. It’s a ridiculous memory to share and Greg can not be more glad he did it. Once he’s eaten he grabs his own post-it note and scribbles out the story of when his sister accidentally hit him with her bike. He sticks it on the fridge and texts Mycroft a picture, still grinning like a madman.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
